The Fine Art of Writing Love Poetry
by Sassy SOBettes
Summary: A one-shot SOB-fic starring C. Warrington of the Slytherin Quidditch team and an irascible girl named Fallon. Just how DOES one court an "acerbic little wench" with a brutal right hook?


Cassius Warrington surveyed the Slytherin Common Room with a scowl on his otherwise handsome face. It was Christmas, and even in the serpents' lair, it was quite festive. The Quidditch team, easily the chieftains of the common room, lounged around, with extremely satisfied, extremely smug looks on their faces. As well they should. They'd had a brilliant win against Hufflepuff a week ago, 300 to 50, and moreover, there were no classes. And this year, the boys were all quite occupied with pleasant activities outside of class and such. Those girls were a blessing in many ways… Warrington was honest enough to admit, to himself, that without their peculiar brand of sly charm and seductiveness, they could not have won against Hufflepuff by that great a margin. And besides… the girls were quite easy on the eyes, and when the mood struck them, quite… friendly, as well.

Well, perhaps for his teammates.

He cast a glance at the luxurious blood-red velvet couch in front of the fire, where his captain and fellow Chaser, Flint, was currently in seventh heaven, lying on his stomach and with… dare he say it… an almost-inane smile on his face. The reason for Flint's current state of bliss was quite simple, and its name was Akasha Noctifer. This siren-like Slytherin 7th year was perched gracefully and delicately on Flint's back, her graceful hands moving in soothing circles on the Slytherin captain's neck and shoulders, her mahogany hair hanging down, almost brushing the side of Flint's face. As Warrington watched covertly out of the corner of his eye, Akasha rubbed Flint's neck gently, and the Slytherin captain, who almost all of the rest of the school thought was the devil incarnate, gave an almost purring sound of contentment.

Oh yes. It was Christmas. And everyone was very, very happy.

Except for him, at that moment. Cassius Warrington sighed slightly and wondered for not the first time… why did _he_ have to get ensnared by the most _difficult _of the girls. 

It was not that Fallon Anderson was an acerbic little wench… okay, so maybe she was, at times. But she was certainly very interesting, and witty… her tongue was quick and sharp and firmly planted in her cheek. Warrington personally thought that there could be far better uses for said tongue, although he knew well enough not to ever voice this thought if he wanted to father children someday. 

But cynical wit aside, Fallon was smart and strong and independent, and yet managed to maintain an air of sophisticated elegance. She moved with a grace that was natural to her, unlike the affected, mincing hip-sways and almost comical pony-like head tosses of other girls. And besides, it was nice… almost refreshing, when a girl could match wits with him, and her satirical little jibes were, if nothing else, far more entertaining than the inane giggles of other girls. So, being interested in Fallon Anderson wasn't really that bad.

And at that happy thought, Cassius Warrington immediately concluded that he must be a masochist.

How in the world did a bloke go about impressing a girl like that, anyway? It wasn't as if he could take a par-of-the-course approach here. Fallon was hardly the type of girl to be impressed simply by looks alone, or his status as a Quidditch player. While other girls might need nothing more than a silly pick-up line to throw themselves into a bloke's arms and beg to be taken to the Astronomy Tower and shagged, Fallon was much more liable to raise a sardonic eyebrow and quirk her lip in derisive amusement before strolling off without a backward glance. And _that _was if she was in a good mood. If the hypothetical bloke had been rude or offensive in any way, he was quite likely to end up with a broken nose and a fractured collarbone, and would be writhing on the ground, howling in pain, as Fallon, ever the cool and composed one, walked away without even breaking a nail or a sweat in the fray.

So, after much careful deliberation, Warrington decided that he would have to make a hefty effort in wooing the girl if he ever wanted to gain her notice and... well, actually, thinking of _that_ girl in _that_ way might not be favorable for one's health. Not that it didn't happen frequently. Fallon, "Slytherin bitch" or no, was gorgeous. There was no denying of this. Many boys thought so, and acted upon it (usually resulting in hospitalization of some sort). Cassius frowned somewhat. All right then. The goal would be to reel her in, and thus, gain exclusive rights to have naughty thoughts of her. A fine, admirable goal for a Slytherin Quidditch player.

But how to go about wooing her? Blimey, how _did_ one generally go about wooing a girl? Warrington's brow scrunched up in thought. Thinking hard, he recalled Bole saying something about giving flowers and jewelry. Bole had presented Kate Le Fay with a silver necklace and a rose on her birthday, and Cassius had seen with his own eyes the amazed, adoring look that Kate had given his Beater teammate. Hmm... a possibility. Except... there was a chance that Fallon was one of those girls who was horribly allergic to flowers. It would be utterly humiliating if he'd handed her a bunch of roses, and she'd started sneezing non-stop. Besides... what would one _do_ with flowers? They'd just sit there, and wilt in a few days. It was all rather _boring._

Jewelry was slightly more promising... except he hadn't the foggiest idea what size and what type.

            _Bloody hell, was there no easy way to go about this?_

            And then, an epiphany shot through his brain. Of _course!_ All girls were suckers for that type of thing... and it couldn't be too hard either!

            Smirking, he pointed his wand lazily at a random schoolbag in the corner of the room and called out _"Accio Parchment!" "Accio Quill and Ink!"_ A moment later, a sheet of clean parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle landed smoothly on the table in front of him, and Warrington dipped the quill into the ink as he prepared to do something that he had never done before.

            He would write a poem for the girl. There were those types of poems... fourteen lines, rhyming in a certain pattern... Bonnets or something. Whatever... how hard could it be? Surely there were enough unique things about Fallon to put into fourteen measly lines!

*          *          *

            Half an hour later, he decided that Bonnets were not the type of poem to write. Fourteen lines saying over and over that Fallon Anderson was a shaggable piece seemed rather asinine. There were surely shorter, more concise ways of doing this. His head propped up by his hand as he sat deep in thought, Warrington recalled the different types of poetry that he'd learnt of once upon the time. Now, what was that type... five lines... a Gimmerick! That's it!

            Now... he just needed to write this. Hopefully in a way that would not incite her wrath and fury. 

            Taking a deep breath, Warrington picked up his quill once again, and moved down the ink-blot and cross-out-ridden sheet of parchment to the blank space left at the bottom, and scribbled down the first thing that came into his mind.

_There once was a girl named Fallon,_

_Whose wit was sharp as an eagle talon,_

_Don't give her lewd looks,_

_She has a brutal right hook,_

_But she's still a damn gorgeous Hellion._

            Warrington read over this masterpiece of poetic creation, and scratched his head. Well...... all right. It was all true. Every word of it applied to Fallon. But... it didn't seem particularly poetical. Nor particularly flattering. The rhymes and meter or whatever weren't really correct. There were no lines extolling her air of regal whatchamacallit or whatever. But then... this is what she truly was like! Oh... what to do? He rolled his eyes, and decided that he'd have to think something up at some other time. Just his luck... that girl was just so... _difficult!_

            "Oi, Warrington!" Montague called from a few feet away, where he and Morrigun were sitting across from each other playing chess, "Want to play winner?" Shrugging, Cassius set his quill down and walked over to watch his fellow Chaser and said Chaser's girl battle each other in chess. Morrigun, her eyes calm and calculating as she moved her pieces, looked to be quite intelligent, and Warrington made a mental note to ask her for advice on this little... issue, later on.

            At that moment, the portrait guarding the Slytherin Common room opened up, and a tall, lithe girl wearing a black lacy frock the express purpose of which seemed to be to drive the blood of males straight downward, walked in, a tray of warm gingerbread cookies balanced in her hand and a slight smile on her striking face. Lifting her other hand to move a strand of dark hair behind one ear, she walked over to the table that Warrington had occupied recently to set the cookies down.

            "All right, you lot! Your food, as promised!" Fallon called as she strode toward the table, and Warrington shot out of his seat next to Montague like he'd been hit by lightning. _Oh bloody, BLOODY hell!_ He made a mad dash for the table, nearly tripping over a green ottoman in the process, but it was too late. Fallon had reached it before him, and her sharp eyes immediately caught sight of the ink-splattered parchment. Setting her cookies down, Fallon picked up the sheet, and quickly scanned it over. Cassius winced. _Here it comes..._ he might as well just go to the Quidditch broom shed right now and concuss himself with a broomstick.

            Fallon read over the scribbles on the parchment once, then read it again. Slowly, her face unreadable, she looked up, and all of the sudden, the room was silent and still. All eyes seemed to be focused on the pale, owl-eyed girl standing at the table and the uncomfortable-looking young man standing a few feet away from her.

            Finally, the tense silence was broken when Fallon, her voice quivering slightly, spoke, "Cassius Warrington, get your Quidditch-obsessed arse over here!"

            Everyone around the room gave a collective wince. _Everyone knew what "Quidditch" was a euphemism for. Flint cast his Chaser a sympathetic look from his spot on the couch. Warrington sighed, and slowly made his way towards the girl who was still standing by the table. __Well... he reflected, __it had been fun while it lasted._

            Fallon waited until Warrington was about two feet away from her, and then picked up the piece of parchment. Looking him straight in the eye, she asked, "Did you write this?"

            Warrington briefly considered denying, but quickly scratched that thought. Fallon knew his handwriting well enough to be able to tell, and moreover, if he really lied to her, she just might brew a truth potion and find out the real story. He gave a weak nod, and closed his eyes. Any moment now, there would be pain. Lots of pain. He was prepared. Sort of. Expectant.

            Which is why he almost fell over from shock when a moment later, he found himself backed against the wall, his arms full of jasmine-scented hair and lace and skin, being rather fiercely and passionately snogged. In fact, he was so gobsmacked that when Fallon pulled away for air, he had not budged an inch from where she'd pushed him, and was standing there stiff. 

            A light slap on his cheek, and he snapped out of it. Dark eyes gazed into his half-exasperatedly, half-amusedly. "Kiss me back, you swarthy git!" she purred in his ear, and he gladly complied. Gradually, a while later, Warrington became aware of the gleefully obnoxious wolf-whistles reverberating across the Common Room. 

            "Hey Fallon!" Vittorio Derrick said merrily, "Why'd you never tell us you could snog like that?"

            "Yeah indeed," Slaine chimed in next to him, "That last snog lasted for 89 and a half seconds, good going, girl!"

            Fallon scowled rather blackly and backed away from Warrington. Arms akimbo and eyes flashing dangerously, she hissed to everyone present, "Any of you tell anyone about this, and I swear on my wand that there will be broken bones and bloodshed!" Jutting out her chin, she whirled around, grabbed Cassius' arm, and led him to somewhere else where they could continue their little... discussion... without such a boisterous audience.

            Cassius Warrington grinned as he allowed himself to be led away. Yes, Fallon Anderson was something else, entirely. And it wasn't all that bad.

*          *          *

~Fin~

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End file.
